







• u A^ *tH 






<^°^ 



.V 












^^^ 



"o^«=.- 
















B . o ' 0.> 



^o 




-^s^^^ • 


















• " * \^ 



y "■ 







V "),• 



"<f"j> 'o • » 












'/ %*^-'*/ V*^^*'y'' V*^'**/ "*< 

,0'' V *oTo' # o ♦,,,.* <0'' V "oTT" ^-^ o 










*^ ^^^^ 






I. ' • - ^. 







:• ^ ^^^ ♦!( 



r. ^ov^ :^^^^ '^^^0^^' i'^M'. '^^o^^' :M^^^ ^^--o^ 



j^^-^^. 













VAGRANTS 

Georaia £.Benmtt 




CHICAGO 

RALPH FLETCHER SEYMOUR 
Publisher 



.'^Z 






COPYRIGHT 1921 BY 
RALPH FLETCHER SEYMOUR 



JAN 20 1922 
e).CI.A653660 



^ I 



VAGRANTS 

Perhaps these vagrants, tattered as they are, 

and torn, 
May find some friendly lodging for the night; 
If not, there are broom and bracken on the 

kindly hills, 
And winter snows fall soft and light. 



VAGRANTS 

Craftsmen 5 

Whom the Gods Love 6 

The Vagrant 6 

A Canoe Trip 7 

On the Prairies 8 

TwiHght 9 

Evaneacence 10 

"The Ultimate Futilities" 10 

Broken Promises 11 

Mnemosyne 12 

The Three Merciless Ones 13 

A Mexican Lullaby 14 

When Night Comes 15 

Tokens (To A. M. B.) 16 

Down in the Pasture 21 

Tomatoes 24 

A Letter to C. W 26 

A Regret 29 

Margaret of Meriban 29 

The Empty Room 33 

Evening 34 

Temperance 34 

A Song for the Mourners 35 

Good-by 37 

Remembrance 37 

Envy 38 

Names 39 

Forgotten 40 

Fame 40 

Retrospect 42 

Delay 42 

La Malquerida 43 

Diabolarie 43 

The Garden City 44 

[1] 



Filetta 46 

A Forest Pool 47 

A Morning Star 47 

An Evening Song 48 

In the Valley of the Menonites 49 

The Work-Shop 58 

Refuge 59 

Consolation 60 

Criticism 60 

Insistence 61 

Change 61 

Over the Wall 62 

The Egoist 62 

Asphodel 63 

The Earth Lover 63 

The End 64 



[2] 



VAGRANTS 



[3] 



CRAFTSMEN 

The Work that his hands have made 
Is the workman's dehght; 
Touch after touch well laid 
It grows in his sight; 
A bit of his dreaming soul 
Shows in the tool's control — 
The soul of a lover. 

The song that his notes have made 
Is the singer's delight; 
Careless and unafraid 
He sings through the night; 
Stray gleams and magic glints, 
Lost dreams and hidden hints 
His song can discover. 

Mine be the singer's joy, 
The craftsman's delight. 
Though but an idle toy 
Come into light; 
Still in the framing it 
My soul may beauty hit, 
Calm, may recover. 



[5] 



WHOM THE GODS LOVE— 

The gods have loved me; they have given 

Length of laborious days, 
A road that winds through gray glooms after 

The sun has spent its rays. 

The gods have loved me; they have with-holden 

The flowering of easy delight, 
The pleasant run of shallow laughter, 

Comfort that sleeps through the night. 

The gods have loved me; they have given 

Loneliness that stays, 
Longing that lasts to the grave, not after, 

Courage to walk their ways. 

rfi tf. If, 



THE VAGRANT 

I looked in at the door of your heart :- 
Incense and candles and prayer, 
And shy little loves that start 
In the tremulous fire-light there. 

But the voice of the wind on the hills. 
The sound of white feet by the sea. 
The calm, that the star-meadows fills. 
Stirred the vagrant soul of me. 

Incense, and candles, and praye^' — 
White feet on a sea-strown floor! 
The wind and the star-meadows fair! 
Softly I closed the door. 



[6] 



A CANOE TRIP 

Fourteen miles of lonely lakes! 

The arrowy paddle dips 

With the lithe arm's singing motion, 

There is not the sound a keen thought makes 
When silver-shafted, clean, it slips 
Out of a sea of emotion. 

Fourteen miles! How quiet they sleep. 

My friendly fellows, the trees 

Miles down in the placid blue! 
Even so may a woman keep 
Love in her heart, hidden so deep 
That no eye ever knew. 

Wind! a wandering wind that breaks 
Into playful ripples the mirrowed show 
Of shadows, lying at dream. 

Just so when a ripple of feeling shakes 

The face of a friend I know, 

I catch of his heart, a gleam. 

Flash! The flash of a striking steel! 

A king-fisher sure of his sleeping prey 

Darts down from the hanging leaf. 
Pain like that poor mortals feel. 
When droning along through life, they 
Feel the dart of grief. 

See! That snub-nosed otter slides 
Right under my dripping prow 
Sleek, and free from fear. 

So I slip on from day to day 

Living in a little now 

Counting it choice and dear. 

[7] 



Fourteen miles are left behind 
Up to the wooden pier I go 
Without the flicker of a breath. 
So some other night I may find — 
The new moon lying low — 
That harbor men call death. 



V v ^ 



ON THE PRAIRIES 

Before the wind the ripe grass bends, 
Out from the swamp the red-wing sends 

His raucous call. 
Here in this sea of grass we lie 
Beneath the blue cup of the sky 

That covers all. 

Your soft hand holds an arrow head 
Chipped by some Indian long since dead 

And fashioned true. 
'"They fought.'* For what?" "That no-one 

knows — 
Like filmy spider-wort that blows 

Your eyes are blue." 

The grass will weave a coronal 

For this wide plain, the red-wing call 

A thousand years from now; 
Then some old rusty bayonet 
May make two lovers half forget 

To seal their vow. 



[8] 



Blue grows the filmy spider-wort, 
Down in the swamp the red-wings flirt; 

"You say 'tis true 
They conquered?" "Yes — No — Who knows — 
See the grass run when the wind blows — 

I know — your eyes are blue!" 

ilft Sfi tft 

TWILIGHT 

That time the musk-winged moths wheel round 
the garden-close, 
Where misty purple flowers 
Make twilight, while a little wandering wind that 
blows 
South-west 
Comes whispering, whispering all the sun-burned 
hours 
To rest. 
A pink-flushed harvest moon climbs bringing 

light, 
And cool, dew-hushed content breathes through 
the night. 

White moths, my noon-tide passions flit the 
garden-close, 
Aimless among the flowers, 
While o'er my heart a little wandering wind that 
blows 
South-west 
Comes whispering, whispering all the aching 
hours 
To rest, 
And in the east, benignant, clear and bright 
Burns the one star that brings content and night. 



[9] 



EVANESCENCE 

I fashioned a house of desire and laughter 

From ceiHng to floor; 
The grapes of passion hung from the rafter 

And curtained the door. 

But the wind of that grape was bitter laughter 

When desire had fled, 
And the dust bit deep into the rafter, 

Till it fell on my head. 

Then I fashioned a house of rainbow delights 

And butterfly wings, 
Of odours and sounds from the summer nights 

When one bird sings. 

Sunbeam and moonbeam form the shining rafter; 

And there apart, 
The spent leaves of roses and the wind's pure 
laughter 

Fall on my heart. 

"THE ULTIMATE FUTILITIES." 

In a garden of paste-board and paper roses, 
Under the light of a golden moon, 
Made from the tinsel that encloses, 
A lady's jewelled dancing shoon 
Sang Pierrot and Pierrette. 



[10] 



"Ages, aeons and cycles pass, 

But a love-charmed moment will perish never; 

An age is a shadow in a glass. 

But moon-light and love will live forever. 

Forgotten the glory of Babylon! 
But roses still cling to the ruined wall, 
For roses will bloom for aye in the sun 
While earthly kingdoms rise and fall. 

Those dutiful houses built on the rock 
Totter and crumble in a day 
Struck by the force of an earthquake shock. 
But a castle of dreams endures alway. 

Diamonds grow dim with the centuries flight. 
But a dew-drop with every day is born; 
A child's sweet laughter welcomes the night. 
And a child's fresh laughter wakes the morn. 

Then shake off your duties and moral alarms 
That blink like bats in the gloom nocturnal; 
Gather dew-drops and dreams and moon-light 

charms. 
For roses and laughter and love are eternal." 

Sang Pierrot and Pierrette. 

•t* •!• •!• 

BROKEN PROMISES 

A little maid is standing by my side; 
Soft as low bells on floating buoys at sea 
She speaks, sweet-lipped and ardent-eyed, 
"You promised me." 



[11] 



You promised me that with the climbing years 
You would pluck beauty from the hill-tops down 
And wear, as veiling darkness nears; 
A starry crown; 

That singing loves about your life should grow; 
Like crocus in the springing April rain, 
Sweet deeds fast hid beneath the snow 
Should bloom again; 

That all the little dreams we could invoke 
To please our quaint desire should come to be 
Before night fell, tall, gracious folk; 
"You promised me." 

"Oh, little, teasing maid, be still at last! 
Broken with bitter frost our frail dreams are 
Nor shows the night that creeps on fast 
"A single star." 

Yet still the pale hand clings to mine; 
Reiterant as sunken bells at sea 
The voice tolls on, the clear eyes shine 
"You promised me." 

•it* v "t* 

MNEMOSYNE 

I built a palace for my joy 
With pillars shining white, 
Where she and I without annoy 
Should dream both day and night; 
But or ever the evening fell. 



[12] 



Ghosts, the ghosts of joys long fled 
With silent paces wove a spell, 
With hands unseen they rang a knell 
And my beautiful joy lay dead. 

I made a garden for my love 

Where the rose and the lily grew. 

And the humming-bird hung poised above 

The swinging bells so blue; 

But a brown bird sang, low, low, 

A song of the vanished years, 

The dead loves stood in a silent row 

Watching the new with a look, still and slow, 

And my love was drowned in tears. 

Then for my sorrow I wrought a cell 

In a barren place apart. 

There with my sorrow I thought to dwell 

And hold her to my heart; 

But a wind from the desert came, 

Parched and hot with the feverish breath 

Of countless sorrows without a name 

That on former days had laid their claim, 

And my sorrow shrivelled to death. 

fft ffi fft 

THE THREE MERCILESS ONES 

The three merciless ones went begging, 
For their garments had worn very thin; 
They sought the scraps of compassion 
To wrap their cold bodies in. 



[13] 



They came to the king's high castle; 
"Your brothers we are," they said. 
The king shook his sword. "No brothers 
When your power and your pride are dead." 

They knocked at the rich man's palace. 
"Your splendor was ours!" they cried. 
Silence their only answer. 
In silence the echoes died. 

They entered the desolate cottage 
Of a man whom their laws had slain. 
"We starve," The grief-broken woman 
Softened at sight of their pain. 

She kindled a fire for their warming, 
She brought out her fine wheaten bread. 
She gave them the robes of compassion 
That had covered her husband's bed. 

The three merciless ones went begging. 
For their garments had worn very thin; 
The king and the rich man denied them, 
A poor woman took them in. 

^ 'p v 

A MEXICAN LULLABY 

Sleep little baby of mine 
Safe on your mother's breast; 
Sleep, little bud of the trumpet-vine, 
Shut up your eyes and rest. 



[14] 



Out of the desert my sweet one came, 

With the sweep of the wind and the smell of the 

rain, 
When the river flooded the sandy plain, 
Out of a night of stress and pain, 
Came my bud of the trumpet-vine. 

Here for a spell you can rest 

Here beneath the shade of the vine, 

With the past and the future all unguessed 

And only this moment for thine. 

Then out to the desert you go again, 
And all the joy and all the pain 
Are but as the sound of the passing rain 
(That leaves the blue sky without a stain) 
On the leaves of the trumpet-vine. 

But here for a spell you can lie 

Safe on your mother's breast, 

Between the yellow sands and the azure sky; 

So shut up your eyes and rest. 

•I* v •** 
WHEN NIGHT COMES 

I shall be glad to see the friendly night 

Enter, with quiet, shadowed feet, my room, 

Brushing from lintels worn the morning bloom. 

Sealing the noisy source of sound and sight. 

I shall be glad when in the purple light 

The ghosts of voices fade, like spent perfume 

Of roses in old gardens where the gloom 

Of autumn warns the swallows to their flight. 



[15] 



For when the kindly darkness, like the hand 

Of some fond mother smooths my brow for sleep, 

And I, in peace I fail to understand 

Sink softly down as through calm waters, deep. 

Forgetting all the feverish dreams I had 

By day's deceiving light, I shall be glad. 



* 



TOKENS (To A. M. B.) 

(Bud, and bird, and blossom! April is here again! 
Varnished leaves in the sunshine, children on 

roller skates! 
Life in the field and the city! Soft life-giving 

rain! 
The velvet feel of the evening and a memory that 

waits 
Like the lilac leaves in April 
For a touch of the sun and the rain !) 

Lilac Leaves! 

On those dusky nights of April 

When the lights were lighted 

And the elder heads were bending 

Over hem and book; 

A boy and a girl played a game, 

A game of adventure and dare. 

And of being unafraid; 

Each one in turn faring forth on a fearful journey. 



[16] 



Along wandering paths 

Past importunate giants of trees 

Through the loamy garden where fresh buried 

seeds 
Lay waiting a resurrection, 
To the Hlac bush at the farthest end of the 

garden 
Where we gathered the tokens of our journey, 
We went. 

To the end of the garden! 
No, to the end of the world. 
Through the cold, far-reaching sounds 
And the narrow, unplumbed estuaries 
Of an unknown ocean 
We went. 

Silently slipping from out the safe and well- 
lighted harbor 

Where the fat and snoozing merchant-men lay, 

(Waiting a comfortable tide, or a wind in the 
shoulder) 

Pirates, soldiers of fortune, 

Brave-handed free-booters, we sailed 

In the teeth of the wind. 

Alone; 

While the other one waited 

As Penelope once, too, waited, 

Patient in Ithaca, the return 

Of Ulysses. 

Out in the dark, 

Braving the vast unknown 

Of filmy, half-shadowed lights 

And trembling, half-lighted shadows 

We fared. 



[IT] 



Were those birds that stirred in the fir-trees, 

Huddled from chill April winds 

And the ravenous beak of the night-hawk, 

Or the murmur of avenging Cicones 

Gathering in thousands on the shore? 

And sure in the top of the pine trees 

The sirens 

Sang of the blue-grey eyes washed blind 

In the salt of the ocean. 

And the beautiful sun-blanched bones 

White as a snow-drop in April. 

Through the lace-woven boughs of the per- 
simmon, 
The tree of magic, puckering fruit, 
Circe was pouring a pale, enchanting liquor 
From the crescent glass of the moon; 
On the sweet-scented shores of the garden 
Where the shy, earthy bulbs 
Breathed a woodsy perfume of things growing, 
A tired wind slept; 
'Twas the land of the lotus-eaters. 

And that cry. 

Breath-shaking, despairing, out of the black; 

No screech-owl that. 

But Polyphemus lamenting 

His one eye. 

So we sailed in the dark. 

And slipping again into the harbor. 

Safe, well-lighted. 

Brought as token to the comrade awaiting. 

Gathered on the farthest shore of our journey. 

Lilac leaves. 



[18] 



You have set sail again, 

Alone, 

Out in the dark. 

And I know you are not afraid; 

While I, I stay in the harbor 

And wait for a token; 

For you have sailed far out past those western 

straits 
Where the golden bark of the sun 
Stops to take tonnage 
Ere he turn again east; 
Out on the wide, unchartered waters. 

Why do you linger? 

Have you found in the circling sea-foam 

Some island, dragon-haunted. 

Where you have broken the serpent charm 

That held the Egyptian maiden 

Who has wandered down long ages 

Seeking a knight, 

Who, with three kisses. 

Would free her? 

Or have you joined the fleet of merry-hearted 

coasters. 
Gay buccaneers. 
To sail the infinite seas. 
Past Saturn, past Neptune, past Uranus, 
On the track of some tail-stretching comet? 

Perhaps the great tides have washed your bark 

down, 
Down in the purple-mouthed gulf of the waves, 
Down to the quiet caves of the sea 
Where the coral flowers bloom; 



[19] 



There amid the dim, half-conscious Hfe 

Of the ocean 

You sleep 

A deep, dreamless sleep; 

While I wait for a token. 

For lilac leaves. 

And only a soft note in the wind, 

Or that break in the sparrow's song 

As it sang just now, 

Or the swiftly changing sheen of the water 

As the rolling clouds chase the flying sun. 

Tell me that you, 

A great-hearted lover of life. 

Of adventure. 

Of the delights to be garnered from defeat and 
despair. 

From joy, and clean, swift-running laughter; 

A lover 

Of the rich wine of earth, 

Once rocked in the harbor, safe-sheltered, well- 
lighted. 

By my side; 

And in my lap laid 

Lilac leaves. 

(Bud, and bird, and blossom! Showers of 

laughter and pain! 
Tokens of spring in the forest, tokens of spring 

in the street! 
(Dropped by whose hand ?) and a rain 
Of flowers in the garden, of flowers that fleet 
Like remembered evenings of April; 
And lilac leaves in the rain!) 



[20] 



DOWN IN THE PASTURE 

We do not understand! 

Or else too late we understand 

Those who have walked beside us 

On the way, and with an ample hand 

Have reached us blessings — 

Which we accept in idle thanklessness 

And stow the unvalued thing away 

With other rubbish; 

Till with the years there comes another day 

When we (like daughters of a mother, dead) 

Rummage the musty chests of memory 

To find among the clothes we once have worn, 

The odds and ends of life, now dull and torn, 

A dusty box that holds a shining gem 

Treasured for us. 

We prize its beauty through our tears; 

We did not understand. 

These autumn days! 

The brown leaves drifting one by one 

Down the Chicago streets where the warm sun 

Makes golden lanes for feet have wandered far! 

These days that drift like drifting leaves! 

These jewelled days! 

They make me search in that old, dusty chest 

That holds my past, and finger once again 

The riches treasured there. 

A jewelled autumn day 

Among the husks of other days! 

(And was it yesterday or years ago?) 

The pasture still was green 

A dancing floor that fitted well the feet 

Had trod it; all unseen, 

[21] 



The night before, but left their fairy ring. 

There while the sunny afternoon 

Swung slowly by, 

I watched my father shape a high well sweep, 

Balance the beam and firmly fix the rope; 

Pausing to throw a word at me, or sing, 

In mellow, untaught voice with careless swing, 

Lugubrious songs of battle, death and woe. 

Black-haired, black-bearded as a pirate. 

Strong, and facile of his fingers 

Like those brave men who sailed with Drake 

Around the world — 

(Not one that fate could break) 

He seemed to me that way 

That autumn day. 

And was it yesterday or was it years ago? 

The browning willows by the pond — 

Like some fair woman justly fond 

Of her own beauty! One who loves it, 

Till in her glass she sees the trace 

Of time deep-etched on hair and face — 

So did the browning willows brood 

On their reflection. 

(Just so the willows brood to-day along the still 

lagoon.) 
The blackbird peered, a brilliant fleck. 
Charmed by the iridescence of his neck; 
And sparrows — not the ones in early spring 
Had tossed their song up to the skies — 
But travelled birds 

Whose two white feathers in the wing 
Showed they had come from far-off lands, 
Those lands to which the wild goose flies. 
(I saw those sparrows in the park one day. 
Ah, yesterday that was, not years ago!) 

[22] 



Then when the sweep was mended 
A/[y father drew the water 
The bright bay mare with gentle eyes 
Came trotting with her colt 
That rubbed his cold nose 'gainst my cheek 
The while his mother looked surprise 
At such a colt as I — such lack of legs! 
Though courteously she did not speak 
But sniffed my father's hand for sugar-lumps. 
And as I trotted home close by my father's side 
Over the pasture that seemed so wide 
'Twould take an hour to cross 
He told the tale of Ali Baba and the forty 
thieves. 

Yes, it was years ago; 

And then for years I did not understand, 

For with the aftertime my father grew 

To be — not that black-bearded play-mate that I 

knew 
That sunny, autumn afternoon — 
But like a shaven parson, silent, scarred 
With mis-adventures. 

The hand that gave the bay mare sugar lumps 
Could not keep gold; 
The tongue that told 
The secret of the Arabian cave 
Had no pass-word to fortune. 
And we, his children, thought it hard, 
The life he gave us; 
But now I know that generous hand 
Gave better gifts than gold; 
Now, I understand. 



[23] 



TOMATOES 

Tomatoes! They stand there in a row- 
Inside the grocery! 
At times they almost seem to wink 
(Like red-cheeked boys whom one sees blink 
Around the corners 
On nights like Hollow-e'en; 
Then run before they are scarcely seen.) 
Some people say they are good to eat, 
But that is not the reason why 
I like tomatoes so. 

For once upon a time a little, curly-headed child 

Played in a low-ceiled kitchen. 

There she saw 

A row of red-cheeked rascals on the window-sill 

That winked at her. Tomatoes! 

Outside a gadding, scarlet vine running at will 

Over the garden fence! 

And scarlet, on the pantry shelf was stored 

A wealth of jelly; apple, grape and plum; 

Each shining glass a miser's hoard 

Of summer sunshine. 

Across the diamond window pane 

A spotted, yellow spider spun its web, 

A golden shield inlaid with rubies 

Like Helen by its beauty it beguiled 

The destroying hand. 

(I saw that spider yesterday, again, I — 

Not that little, curly-headed child.) 



[24] 



She watched the myriad motes that played 

And froliced in the level beams 

Of those long, sunny streams 

Which flowed from every window there; 

While islanded in purple shade 

The unfathomed depths of gloom were made 

Vast continents still to be explored. 

And moving swiftly to and fro 

Now in the sun that pricked the glow 

Of her red cheeks (tomatoes ?) 

Now in the shade that purpled all her hair 

And made her eyes as dark and deep 

As wells where untold secrets sleep; 

My mother in a yellow bowl, with a blue spoon 

Mixed ginger cookies. 

Singing the while old country songs, 

Forgotten now, unknown to any lips of all the 

throngs 
That fill these city streets — 
I wish that I could hear those songs again! 

I hope that all these people — everyone who stops 
To gaze in at the windows of the shops 
Where ripe tomatoes nod and blink 
Where cabbage, pumpkins seem to wink 
And nudge each other in a row. 
Can see such pictures as I saw 
Once on a time — 
Oh, long ago. 
Tomatoes 1 



[2o] 



A LETTER to C. W. 

{Written from Cape Cod, by a garrulous friend.) 

Some summer when you shake a swelling purse 
And see the gold like scales of fishes shine, 
Come where long, golden days will reimburse 
A small expense of thine; 
Come to Cape Cod! Pack then with prudent 

care. 
Close and compact, like smooth-skinned dates 

that fare 
To us on dromedaries; 
But leave a little nook to tuck there-in 
A blue-bound book, sweet as a nut, but thin. 

Theocritus! That book would take the space 

(The one that tells the sly, sea-faring man) 

You else would need for linens and for lace. 

— Much weight is under ban. — 

The Odessey can give the ocean's spell; 

Theocritus portrays the land as well; — 

Hale, apple-cheeked, old men, 

Brown youths who labor in the browning hay. 

Sun-bonnet girls whose breath is sweet as bay. 

Englished by Andrew Lang. Dear Andrew Lang ! 

Do you remember how one winter day, 

Seeking some tonic to renew life's tang, 

We chanced to stray 

Upon his picture.? Gaunt, marked with pride of 

race; 
Whimsical and rare, with wistful grace 
Of dreams half-thwarted; 
The face of one, who missing full success. 
Still had the kindly power to cheer and bless. 

[26] 



He brings to us whose rougher, western tongue 
Has never learned the pure, smooth-voweled 

Greek, 
The music of the song that Circe sung 
To charm Odysseus, sleek; 
With him we see the pride of Ilion fall; 
Weep with Andromeche upon the wall. 
One perfect sonnet, his, 

Haled from the shadowy groves of Proserpine, 
Compounded of pale loves and salt sea brine. 

Here on Cap Cod is old Greek life again. 

For here are folk who drag the silent deep 

For stores of moss, and grey, sea-gazing men 

Whose careful memories keep 

The ocean's love; an ancient, chattering crone 

Who surely heard the flattering suitors drone 

Around Penelope; 

Young girls who show the slim, processional 

grace 
Of classic maidens on John Keats's vase. 

Here, clean-limbed youths, who as they reap and 

mow 
Pass twisted jokes. On bright days women wear 
Linens so snowy white they truly show 
Nausicaa's house-wife care. 
The landscape is one lovely pot-pourri 
Of hills, and friendly dunes, and deep-wine sea. 
Here we may take (as once before 
Among the scattered lakes of Michigan) 
The flavor of blue days, Sicilian. 



[27] 



We will grow Pagan, (forget that curious god 
Who ruled our fathers with a rod of fear) 
Will learn our kinship to the sky and sod, 
Things intimate and dear; 
With laughing leaves will drink the rain-drop 

up 
And from the sea-shell's curved, rose-lined' cup, 
Sip tranquility; 

Rejoice with birds' and bees' and flowers' mirth. 
Children and lovers of this rolling earth. 

Delay not long! The stern hands of the Fates 

Spin on, and when the thread at last has run 

A deep and dreamless sleep for us awaits. 

Death, I would not shun; 

Yet sometimes I have grieved to think, ere long 

I shall not hear the robin's homely song 

That wakes the morning up; 

Evening may fall; I, miss the fair delight 

Of seeing the first star that brings the night. 

The tide has turned; the waves roll into shore; 

The dolorous voices sound from out the deep; 

The gold sky darkens; I can write no more. 

Last night I heard a Cyclops weep 

His fickle nymph. 'Tis thus I long for you, 

For your red bathing-cap out in the blue 

Among the swimmers. 

Come to Cap Cod where gods will reimburse. 

With golden coin of joy, the poorest purse. 



[28] 



A REGRET 

'Tis not that I do greatly fear to die; 
The countless sunsets fading into night, 
The countless years in their unending flight 
Pass silent on and cease without a sigh; 
Yet all the pomp and pageantry of sky 
And earth, the wealth and wizardry of light 
And shade, the seasons' sumptuous, slow delight, 
Die not, but stream in liquid splendor by. 
There the regret and not the fear for death ! 
To lie where no returning blue-bird brings 
The thought that April with her scented breath 
Is fashioning those fair and fragrant things 
Of field and forest! Sleep, nor even hear 
The last wild requiem for the dying year! 

V T* •X* 

MARGARET OF MERIBON 

High on the hill the convent stands 
And high are the ramparts of heaven, 
Where slipping out from the singing bands 
The tired angels lean at even. 

They gaze far past this tumbling earth 
Where their good and ill befell, 
Far past the tides of death and birth 
Down to the deeps of hell. 

Step after step, clean out of sight. 

The feet of the saints have trod; 

By the weary steps of our convent height, 

I climb to the feet of God. 



[29] 



By prayer and fast, by fast and prayer, 
I, Martha, the withered nun, 
Atone for the sins I sinned down there 
As Margaret of Meribon. 

For I saw my husband fall 'neath the blow 

Of Hugh, my handsome paramour. 

Did I wring my hands, bow my head full low? 

I donned my gems and danced on the floor 

Of the banquet hall, where, (dregs in the wine) 

The steel-eyed baron had planted fear 

In this wild, laughing heart of mine 

Till it hung like a yellow leaf, and sear. 

Then it lay, a wayward, fluttering thing 
In Hugh of Brittany's mailed hand. 
Till he flung it far as the rich men fling 
A leper — You understand.'' 

Saying 

"Your hair glooms black as the wings of night 
While the locks of Clarice are gold in the sun; 
And what man would leave the sweet delight 
Of a love to win for a love that is won?" 

Now he lies in his tower of Brittany 
Wrapt in a cloud of golden hair, 
While I ply the scourge and bend the knee 
With prayer and fast, and fast and prayer. 

I give the old abbess courtesies, 

I play the organ and lead the choir. 

And I sing the dreary litanies 

Till my voice grows thin and my fingers tire. 



[30] 



But when from the blue the evening falls 
And the quiet winds of twilight blow 
Over the hills, I gaze from the walls 
On the purple and golden valley below. 

And when at the sound of matin prayer 
The sun climbs over the highest rim 
Of the mountains, upright and fair 
My poor worn spirit runs with him. 

I follow the long roads up and down, 
I kiss the very stones in the street 
Of the winding gray-walled feudal town 
Where once I walked with heedless feet. 

And when at night the smooth earth slips 
From under the mad stars' drunken rout 
And the little crescent moon-shaving dips 
In the flying winds that blow it about, 
I gaze far down in the velvet deep 
Where the steadfast lanterns shine 
And happy peaceful folk are asleep 
In pleasant bowers that once were mine. 

I watch the cheering wine of the year 
Into the mountain-rimmed valley poured, 
A great, heart-easing wine, and clear. 
And a cup well fit for the festal board ! 

A cup for the hollow of God's own hand, 
More beautiful by far 
Than those curious silver cups that stand 
On our high-built altars are! 



[31] 



The fragrant valley I loved so well 
Where Hugh of Brittany still can ride 
(While I am bound by rule and bell) 
With the bright-haired Clarice at his side. 

He will die in his sins — but on my knees 
Up the long and steepy stairs I'll climb, 
And hear on a morning that knows no cease 
The matin bells of heaven chime. 

But Hugh shall sink as sinks a stone 
In some quiet lake of a forest dell, 
And his soul shall fare on its way alone 
Down to the very depths of hell. 

A fragrant robe of white will be mine, 
And an aureole with a golden rim. 
And I shall see the swords that shine 
In the mighty hands of the seraphim. 

To God will I render courtesies 
And sing with the heavenly choir 
All the wearisome — sweet litanies, 
(Perchance I shall not tire.) 

(When I to that heavenly choir shall win. 
Will one of the angels begin too soon. 
While one forgets when his notes come in 
And one sing a little out of tune.'*) 

It may be; but when no one will miss 
My voice, to the buttressed walls I will go 
And throw down the void a fluttering kiss 
To the little valley here below 



[32] 



Where the lights shine through the blue of even 
And glad feet trip and bright cheeks glow 
While blither than any chant of heaven 
The revelers sing a tune I know. 

When the angels, wearying at their song 
Turn to smile at the pains in hell, 
I will join the raptured, gazing throng 
And look for that one that I know well. 

I shall see from those cloud-built ramparts above 
The soul in its agony 

Of him whom I loved — loved ? Whom I love ! 
(Would God that I were he.) 

(Mary! to whom the sinners make moan. 

Let them do as they will with me, 

Those angels that guard with bright swords the 

throne. 
But save Hugh of Brittany!) 

T* T* "tT 

THE EMPTY ROOM 

It seemed the room was empty 

But I knew you had been there — 

Was it an hour ago? 

The time goes slow; 

Like rows of patient nuns in prayer 

The still days wear away my heart. 

Yet when I entered, in the room the air 

Was tremulous with a form that drew apart. 



[33] 



And now the sunbeams flower upon the wall, 

From that green vase the rose leaves fall 

Softly down, by some breath stirred. 

And truth, upon the stair I heard 

Just now your step. 

Ah, yes! I surely know 

You have been here. 

Was it an hour, or was it years ago? 

•5r •T* •!• 

EVENING 

Ah, little house wherein I dwell 
Where, with the happy dawn of day. 
The golden light of morning fell, 
How worn thy lintels are and gray! 

The bird that sang above thy door 
Has flown into the evening light; 
Within, the shadows on the floor 
With lengthning fingers point the night. 

Ah, little house, so worn and gray! 
Soon, soon I see that thou too, must 
Upon the night wind pass away 
Dissolved to ashes, strewn as dust. 

•^ V ^ 

TEMPERANCE? 

Ask me not if I am drunk 
With plenteous draughts of Coan wine; 
I guafTed, this morn, a breakfast cup. 
Three fingers, straight, of pure sunshine. 

[34] 



At ten I lost my senses quite, 
My silly head was all a-whirl 
When in a foam of skirts, I saw 
The silken stocking of a girl. 

The blue-bells, in the afternoon, 
Drained in a riotous drinking-bout 
Immoderate cups of summer rain: 
I joined their revels with a shout. 

Like moths around a candle light. 
Friends, by my evening fire are brought; 
I drink a sparkling vintage then 
Of rare, intoxicating thought. 

Ask me not if I am drunk 
When morn and night I sip the wine 
The generous hand of life pours out 
From bubbling beakers, large, divine. 

•!• •*• V 



A SONG FOR THE MOURNERS 

Give us the greatest of griefs from the full-laden 

sheaf of sorrows. 
But give us to take as our own the fruit of the 

tear-furrowed field; 
Save us from cringing false hopes and the broken 

coward endeavor 
To stay with our tearful oblations the hand of a 

pliable god. 



[35] 



A woman dies in her prime and the dolorous 

sound of lamenting 
Fills all the house, till a breath from some 

asphodel vale 
Brings a fond hope of re-union by a deep and 

clear-flowing river; 
But who would this same woman be when her 

various lovers would greet her? 

For her mother would look for the child that she 

left in the dawning; 
Her lover would seek for his love with the sun on 

her bright golden hair; 
And her child for a face softly touched with the 

fast-falling twilight; 
And the woman, herself, for the one that she 

knew, and she only. 

Flowers that grow from this earth, those flowers 

we would gather; 
— Do they grow by the smooth-gliding stream 

that flows through some valley of dreams? 
Then give us our roses for joy and the jasmine 

and rue for our mourning, 
Give us the flowers of this earth, nor asphodel, 

amaranth, nor moly. 

We have drunk of the river of life and the waters 

are bitter. 
— But what do we know of those streams that 

spring in some mythical world? 
Phlegethon flows not for us nor the sweet, 

oblivious Lethe — 
Then give us to take of this cup and bravely to 

drink it. 



[36] 



GOOD-BY 

That day you did not stop to say good-by, 
But softly closed the door and went; 
No song-bird stirred as you passed by, 
Nor grasses to your foot-steps bent. 

You did not stay to hold my hand, 
Nor promise ever to return; 
And to what far mysterious land 
You passed, I cannot learn. 

By day, no shadow flits across my sight. 
No clear voice answers to my cry, 
(But from the mothering womb of night 
You came, and said "Good-by.") 

T* T* V 

REMEMBRANCE 

I had forgotten 

How in the April showers the clinging violets 

— Shy lovers of unfooted nooks — 

Bend with the rain-drops; 

But the hill-side remembers and burns blue with 

joy- 

I had forgotten 

How the single note of the blue-bird 

— Like a single string of the first violin — 

Preludes the full chorus. 

But the mulberry tree in the orchard remembers 

And prepares to pay its coming guests 

With the coin of purple berries. 



[37] 



I had forgotten 

How rose petals float down the flood of summer, 

Gold on the early wave of June, 

Flushing from pink and crimson to ardent white; 

But the moon remembers, every month 

floating, 
A curled, white rose-petal 
In the silent skies. 

I had forgotten 

How in the deep heart of a woman 

Memory, like the lily in the deep pond, blossoms; 

But the heart of a woman cannot forget. 

•!• V ^ 

ENVY 

It haunts my sunlit, waking dreams, 
The yellow primrose of the night 
That blooms so quietly it seems 
A sweet, frail ghost of spent delight. 

She feigns a friendly courtesy 
That primrose one he calls his own 
And stretches out pale hands to me; 
Pale hands? Oh, primroses half-blown! 

The color of the primrose shows 
In her silk strands of yellow hair. 
Rose burnt to crimson, my cheek glows; 
Can he find primroses more fair? 

It haunts my sunlit, waking hours 
That pale primrose that smells of musk 
And steals like ghosts of happier flowers 
Quietly through the scented dusk. 

[38] 



NAMES 

In summer gardens the roses 

Fall softly, one by one; 

Nor with the death of their petals 

Is the tale of their beauty done — 

Beauty the ghost of a perfume, beauty a leaping 

flame 
Haunts the grey walks of dead gardens 
And lives on in a name: — 
Queen of the Prairie and Sweet Brier, 
La France and Cherokee, 
Wild Rose, Princesse de Sagen, 
Cinnamon, Du Barry, 
Red Rambler, proud De Wattville, 
Penzance and Jacqueminot, 
Bengal, Provence, Tea-rose, 
Damask, Heart of Snow! 

Lovers who walked in these gardens 

Have come to a flowery death. 

But their ghosts still haunt the memory 

Sweet as the roses' breath; 

For beauty and love live ever. 

All things else are vain; 

The light of their love burns softly 

As I name them over again: — 

Beatrice, Guinevere, Rosamund, 

Iseult of the Irish Sea, 

Pale Iseult of Brittian, 

Heloise, Nimue, 

Sappho, Phaedra, Helen, 

Alcestes, Queen half divine, 

Medea, Perdita, Juliet — 

And mine — and mine! 



[39] 



FORGOTTEN 

I fingered over a forgotten love, 

Untied the faded bow, 
My hand hads bound the letters with — 
— Oh, many years ago. — 

A little ghost from that far past 

Might frighten with its cry 
The new love that had lived its time 

But had forgot to die. 

Not even a little, fluttering ghost 

From those old letters came; 
I thought to write a name, a date; 

I wrote — another's name. 

V V V 

FAME 

Why do you ask me now to that wide banquet 

hall.? 
The guests sit ivy-crowned .? 
Laughter, jest and friendship, and love go 

round ? 
Ah! but the first lights of the morning fall 
Through high-arched windows, 
I hear the first bird sound his morning call. 
Night's shadows slip away 
Before the dawn of day, 
It is late. 



[40] 



Time was when gladly I had bound 

My soft, brown hair with chickory, rose and 

primrose 
To feast with you. 
— Crimson, gold and blue — 
Time was when I had found your friendship fair 
But now it is too late. 

For I have found a place 

Of peaceful meadows and wide pastures 

Where through long, sunny afternoons 

I watch the blossoms bud and bloom and fall, 

— Crimson and rose and gold — 

Bloom and fall. 

Where one dead leaf burns brighter than a poppy 

wreath 
Grown in your sunshine; 

My longing hands can scarcely hold the beauty 
Of the flowers that grow in these still meadows 

of my soul. 

Friends, too, I have who gather round a board 

as bright 
As those quaint jewelled cloths 
Are spun by long-legged spiders in the night; 
Friends who smile with quiet lips 
And drink from filmy goblets blown 
By the master workman. 

Why do you nake such haste to bring those gifts? 
It is too late. 



[41] 



RETROSPECT 

An old bent woman cloaked in grey 
Goes grumbling on her upland way, 
Till 'neath a tree she slips her load 

And through green leaves reviews the road 

She sees with childlike wonderment 

In places where her tired feet went, 

Tulips deep red and golden bright. 

Narcissus, like slim girls white, 

Winged' daffodils arise. 

Bluetts that smile up at the skies. 

She sighs in musing wonderment, 

"Is that the way by which I went?" 



DELAY 

When you were out at sea, I said 
I know the path that we will tread, 

With grass and clover overspread, 
When you come back to me. 

There yellow broom and sweet bay grow; 

The scented air of twilight thrills 
With the song the brown-thrush spills 

Out to his mate below." 

At last you came. The path we tread, 
But no brown bird sings overhead; 

The blossoms of the broom are shed; 
My heart is out at sea. 



[42] 



LA MALQUERIDA 

Whether wilHngly or unwiUingly 

I pluck the white, pellucid flowers that grow out 

by my threshhold, 
(faces blanched with passion) 
it matters not; 
or whether a strong, brown hand at twilight 

tosses them through my window, 
past the drifting curtains, 
it matters not. 

All night their perfume clings about my brow, 
tangles up in dreamy slothfulness the songs that 
else at dawn had flown out to the sun- 
shine. 

Whether willingly or unwillingly I lay these pale 

flowers on my breast, 
it matters not. 

' fft f^ ffi 
DIABOLARIE 

I would forget him and again be free, 
But I am caught and hindered — 
Not in the silken skein of memory — 
But by his seeming presence in the room. 
I cannot brush my hair 
But what I feel the pressure of his hand 
That rested there — was it last evening? 
My purple dress still wears the flushed delight 
It knew when his grey eyes 
Turned black with pleasure at the sight 
Of my slim throat above its folds, 
[His eyes are grey. The berries of the bay 
In that blue vase are such a grey.] 

[43] 



Outside, upon the slant of April rain 

Drifts down the breath of lilacs. 

Lilacs! Once again I live that day 

Of amorous sunshine touched with pain, 

When in a sheltered vale I lay 

And he piled lilacs, cool and sweet 

Upon my sun-warmed breast and on my feet 

Until I saw his face smile down on me — 

Through lilacs! 

Then how can I forget him, how be free, 
When any straying, chance perfume still brings 
His presence? 
My soul is tangled in the invisible web of things. 

•jT V V 

THE GARDEN CITY 

I 

This city like a garden is 
Where many lovely blossoms grow; — 
Tulip, and rose, and fleur-de-lis, 
Could one but truly know. 

Though black as sin the soil may be. 
And wet with tears for rain. 
Year after year in their beauty. 
The flowers bloom again. 

My country neighbor talks of trees, 
And golden bees, and birds on bough; 
But here's a humming hive of bees, 
And singing hearts enow. 



[44] 



THE FLOWERS OF THE GARDEN 

II 

Rose Petals 
In country lances at twilight hour, 
The white moth from a white cup sips 
The treasured wine of some sweet flower, 
Then into darkness slips. 

That magic of the twilight hour 

My city garden also knows; — 

Each shop-worn girl blooms out, a flower, 

With beauty of a rose. 

Oh pale with pride, with passion bright 
Down glittering streets where arc-lights blind. 
Flung from the hand of coming night, 
Rose petals on the wind ! 

One day for passion, one for pride. 
And then — then dawns another day! 
What thing of beauty can abide. ^ 
They go the flower way. 

The sunflower 
With beer-flushed face and gleaming star, 
And lordly air of high commands, 
Ruling the traffic near and far. 
This cop, my sun-flower stands. 

fp fft Sft 

Poppies 
A drowsy, sun-warmed poppy glows 
Among the heads of useful wheat. 
Illumining the patient rows 
With beauty, heedless, sweet. 

[45] 



So through the streets where labor haunts, 
Gilding the way with dusky sheen, 
Insouciant and free, she flaunts. 
This flaming gipsy queen. 

EVENING IN THE GARDEN 
III 

God walks in gardens where the eve is cool, 

So simple country people say; 
By sheltered fragrant path and fringed' pool, 

He passes on his way. 

God walks in gardens where the twilight falls 
On city streets, and arc-lights shine 

And from the lake the fog-horn, homeless, calls? 
Yes, then God walks in mine. 



FILETTA 

Filetta had such little feet 

She should have walked on flowers. 

A broken slipper lies now in the garden path 

Out in the sleet. 

Filetta had such little feet! 



[46] 



A FOREST POOL 

I am a deep, quiet pool, a blue eye shining 
under the blue sky. The shepherd of those sky 
pastures drives slow-trailing flocks over my sur- 
face — and not one sheep bleats, for the leader 
has lost his bell. When my lover, the wind, 
stoops to kiss me, ripples of emotion wrinkle my 
face. 

Sometimes a bird dips a shy wing into my 
waters; sometimes an irridescent fish flashes his 
fins above me. 

I am a quiet pool, deep with mystery. Down 
in the dreaming heart of me grow strange, half- 
guessed creatures which even the Master who 
fashions the pools of the forests knows but 
dimly. Perhaps the stars that peep into my 
bosom at night are searching my secret. 

Oh Master and Maker of pools, of little 
deep-forest pools, lean over me that I may 
mirror your face in my smooth waters. 

•T* T* •ir 

A MORNING STAR 

Life stirs and kisses the face of the waters; 
Love stirs and wakes the winds from their 

dreaming. 
And the three eternal comrades. 
The sun, the wind, and the shower, 
Go forth to their endless labor; 
Shaping the clouds in the sky 
And the ever-enduring mountains. 
Painting both heaven and earth in the tiniest 

dewdrop. 
Forming the delicate rose-bud. 



My heart awakes from its dreaming 
And loves, and looks on beauty; 
Loving the rose-bud and rainbow, 
The dewdrop and the mountain — 
And the light of your eyes — 
For life stirs and kisses the face of the waters, 
Love stirs and wakes the winds from their 
dreaming. 

•5r* V V 

AN EVENING SONG 

Quiet are the waves of the waters, and quiet the 

little winds of evening 
That all day long have wandered over the earth, 
Driven to and fro by desire; 
Desiring the sweetness of the rose. 
The deep delights of placid forest pools, 
The freedom of the mountain tops 
The passion of the desert sands; 
But now the restless winds lie quiet in their 

mother's lap. 

Only my heart is like a troubled wave, 

A restless wandering wind. 

Driven by desire for gifts that never grow on 

earth. 
Hungry for the rose that blooms only in dreams; 
But quiet are the waves of the waters, 
And quiet the little winds of evening. 



[48] 



IN THE VALLEY OF THE MENONITES 
L The Valley 

Friendly the wooded hills that stand 

Guarding the folded vale, 
Rounded, as though a mother's hand 
Had smoothed a pillow for her child 
And bending softly down, had smiled 

To see it fall asleep. 

Friendly the folk that plow and sow 

And gather the grain to barn; 
Like sleepy brooks that pause in their flow 
The stream of life runs quiet there; 
Lightly blown on the scented air, 

Peace floats like thistle down. 

A pious band in that vale had sought 

Rest from the old world wars; 
In the rich new world where their slow tongues 

caught 
At Indian names, they had turned the sod 
And planted a seed from the word of God 

That says, "Thou Shalt Not Kill." 

For a page from some old bible torn 

Had found in that valley its rest. 
The word is read both night and morn 
While the round of daily living there 
Runs to the sound of murmured prayer, 

A brook on well-worn stones. 

The low-browed houses, trim and white 

Elbow the big striped barns; 
Neat-handed women from morn to night 
Comfort the man and love. the child; 
Martha, herself, might have looked and smiled 

At the careful housewives there. 

[49] 



Bearded men, like bearded wheat, 

Bend in the yellow fields; 
On the seventh day they set their feet 
Towards the fingered spire where their leader 

reads 
The text that rules their human deeds: — 

"Thou Shalt Not Kill." 

"Thou Shalt Not Kill." The thrush sings free 

Safe in the osage hedge; 
The squirrel drops his nut from the tree; 
Where the tired stream rests by the mill 
The sleek-nosed otter slips at will 

From under the hanging bank. 

"Thou Shalt Not Kill." That is their creed 

Wrought in the lives of them. 
They had sought a peaceful land for their need, 
But now past the hills that shut them in 
Come rumors and echoes, shrill and thin, 

Sounds from a world at war. 

And the shadow of an unspoken fear 

Darkens the sun of their peace. 
They had learned to call that country dear, 
But the single faith they owed to their God 
War burned in their souls with a searing rod, 

"Thou Shalt not kill." 

Jesus walked in Galilee 

Through fields of ripening grain; 
Jesus in his agony 

Suffered the length of the daylight hour, 
When darkness, opening like a flower. 

Made of his pain an end. 



[50] 



II. The Lovers 

Under the willows, hidden apart, 

The miller's snug house stands. 
Hilda, his daughter, stirs his heart 
Almost as much as his swift wheels do, 
The wheels he loved before he knew 

The sound of Hilda's voice. 

*'The mills of the gods grind slow," he sings, 

"While mine run very fast — 
Fast as a young girl's heart that swings 
From the love of her home to the love of her 

man — 
But the mills of the gods in their turning can 

Grind exceedingly line." 

Hilda bends over her oaken chest 

Carved with the delicate skill 
Of some craft-man's hand, in time unguessed 
That worked for love. Rich fantasy 
Flowered in the embroidered cloth that she 

Stored for her wedding day. 

Fine beaten gold is not more fair 

Under the gold-smith's hand 
Than the burnished flow of her yellow hair 
That slips from under her cap's white rim 
And follows the line, where her throat, firm and 
slim. 

Is lost in the curve of her breast. 

Dark in the windowed square of light 

Shows Adolph's swarthy head; 
A John the Baptist of impetuous might 
Softens his glance as it hangs above 
The bending head of his meek little love, 

And softly, too, he speaks. 

[51] 



"The ripening grain stands ready to reap, 

I am a reaper, too." — 
Then his eyes look out to the high well-sweep. 
"Johanna and Joseph soon may know 
How a mustard seed of love may grow 

To shadow the heart's wide field" 

For Johanna was holding a smooth, brown cup 

To Joseph's thirsty lips. 
The purple glooms in her braids tangled up 
His mild blue eyes, while under his gaze 
Her rich cheeks burned, a peach ablaze 

In a warm September sun. 

"The mills of the gods grind slow," the voice 

Of the busy miller sings. 
"A man and a maid have little choice 
When the wheels of war call for ripened grain, 
For love is a flower that withers in pain 

When the whole world turns to war." 

Bells! Over the valley, clear 

Out from the spire they swing! 
Did the wind in the willows whisper fear? 
Was the shadow that of a floating cloud 
Or a floating dread that might enshroud 

The blossom of their love? 

A shattered thing, the brown cup slips 
From Johanna's frightened hands, 

A fluttering prayer moistens Josef's lips, 

Adolph's brow thunders to frown, 

While Hilda hastily wrinkles down 
The linen in her chest. 



[o2] 



The clattering wheels of the mill stand still 

With a whimper and a groan, 
The miller, a dusty form on the sill, 
Speaks, like a ghost, their clinging dread, 
"The numbers are drawn, the names will be read 

Of those who must go to war." 

III. The Casting of The Lots 

Bearded men like bearded wheat. 

Grain for the reaper's hand ! 
Smooth-haired women in bonnets neat, 
The reiterant clang of the bells, a choir 
That sings of death, and the fingered spire 

That stains the sky's clean cup. 

The slow clouds load in the deep blue sky, 

Their shadows loaf on the green, 
A heavy bee goes droning by 
From clover fields where sleek cows graze 
And lift their quiet eyes in amaze 

At the sound of the noisy bells. 

The church is filled with a sibilant sound 

From lips that scarcely move; 
For every pale-cheeked woman is bound 
To ask for a lover, a husband, a son. 
To ward off the lot to some other one 

Not of her own household. 

The pastor reads, "Thou shalt not kill. 

That is our laws command; 
And who shall the blood of his brother spill 
That man is cursed. The country calls 
The men to fight; and so Abel falls 

Under the hand of Cain. 

[53] 



"Here in our church once more we may pray 
To strengthen our young men's hearts — 

Our country we love, but we cannot slay 

Our brother men, though the bloody scroll 

Of suffering martyrs again unroll 
And show our very names." 

They pray, then out to the public square 

The silent people press. 
The sleek draft-master stands smiling there. 
"See the muscles slide beneath that tan! 
These are the boys we are wanting, man," 

He says to his fellows there. 

"Render to Caesar the things that are his," 

A grey-beard elder spoke. 
"And to God his own. Well, I know this, 
My soul is God's." And Adolph's face 
Glowed like some chief's of a fighting race 

When the trumpets sound for war. 

But Josef said, "This land is free. 

We children of the land; 
The fathers of the flock well see 
That we have vowed, so cannot kill; 
Then, come what may, we do God's will 

And follow his command." 

"The numbers are drawn; the lots are cast," 

Slowly the pastor spoke. 
"You Adolph and Josef hold you fast 
To your spoken faith. You are called; You must 

.go; 
Here in our fold may we never know 

Of sheep that were led astray. 



[54] 



"We will never wear the clothes of war," 

Both Josef and Adolph swear. 
The draft-master smilingly forbore; 
"Tell that tale to the Major when 
You come to camp; He can deal with men, 

He may listen to you." 

Josef bent his head in prayer, 

Then to Johanna he turned. 
But Adolph stretched his hands in the air: — 
"That man would be false to his marriage vow 
Who would break his faith with his God, when 
as now 

It is put to the final test." 

The miller stood, a Pagan head 

Among that pious folk. 
"The mills of the gods grind slow," he said, 
"But how each little kernel fares. 
As the water that turns my mill-wheel cares, 

So care the gods for men." 

"God marks each sparrow in its fall," 

Sternly the pastor spoke. 
"He cares for his children, one and all. 
He tempers the wind for the tender sheep, 
In the hollow of his hand he will keep 

Those who serve him well." 

IV. Hilda 

They went. And long may Hilda wait 

To hear her Adolph's step; 
Johanna at milking may linger late. 
But no song answers her clear song. 
And no hand, eager, brown and strong. 

Lightens the heavy pail. 

[55] 



"In the hollow of his hand he will keep 
Those who serve him well." 
So Hilda murmured in her sleep. 
But, well for her she could not see 
The cell where Adolph bent his knee 
And bowed his head in prayer. 

And well she could not hear the scorn 

Of the Major's curling lips: — 
"Think it over till Sunday morn 
And see if pattering prayers in the dark 
Will kindle in that cell a spark 

To light your pious feet." 

"That uniform we will never wear," 

Josef and Adolph said. 
The Major spared no time to swear, 
"Send them back to the dungeon cell 
Without their clothes — Let them freeze a spell 

Till they love a uniform." 

Night and day! day and night 1 

Cold and torture and dark, 
Till Adolph's beard had turned sheer white, 
And Josef's face in its agony 
Looked like a monkly travesty 

Of Christ, the man of woe. 

Bodies that grow near the good brown earth 
Are brown and supple and strong. 

But men who have drunk of the broad sun's 
mirth 

As he pours out his wine in the ciup of the morn 

Wither like flowers when they le forlorn 
In a festering prison cell. 



[--fi] 



"In the hollow of his hand he will keep" — 

The waiting Hilda said. 
While Johanna stood where the waters sleep 
Above the weir, and the miller would sing, 
"Winter and summer, they both must bring 

The grain to my hungry wheels." 

"They are coming home," Hilda's blue eyes 
shine. 
"I saw them in my dream." 
And home they came — in a box of pine — 
And in fighting clothes — thin, stiff lips will never 

speak 
The words that Hilda must ever seek 
To ease the fear at her heart. 

"I had his love for a little day. 

And though that day has gone. 
There is a joy that will light alway 
The whirling years, while the wheels grind still 
And break the human grain in the mill," 

Johanna said — and smiled. 

"That man would be false to his marriage vow 

Who breaks his faith with his God. 
Was he false,'*" but only the song 
Of the wind in the oak answers Hilda's prayer 
And the cry of a jay that has lingered there 
Past the fall of the winter snow. 

Jesus walked in Galilee 

Through fields of ripening grain, 
But Jesus in his agony 
Suffered the length of the daylight hour. 
Then darkness, opening like a flower, 

Made of his pain an end. 



[57] 



THE WORK-SHOP 

I looked in at the door of the work-shop; 

There stood the Master, 

Skillful, imperturbable, quiet, 

Bending over the work of his hands. 

On the walls, on the benches, the floor, were the 
tools 

Curiously shaped and wrought with a 
workman's true cunning; 

No two alike, but each fitted for its own particu- 
lar purpose. 

There, in the work-shop, 

[Filled with the sweet smell of shavings and of 

beautiful things in the making] 
I heard — not the Master, 
But the various tools, talking and boasting. 

The first was a child: 

With his little, uncertain hands, he had built, 

from a pile of wooden bricks, 
A house with doors and windows and chimney. 
He laughed, a shrill laugh. 

Danced on the floor of the work-shop, shouting, 
"See what I have made!" 

The next was an artist: — 

On a stretch of white canvas he had spread his 

dreams 
In subtle, magnificient reds, 
Deep-hearted blues that glowed like the orient, 
And yellows as pure and clean as the breath of 

spring. 
Then he lighted a cigarette, folded his arms in 

triumph 
And strode with long steps round the room, 

chuckling, 
"See what I have made!" 
[58] 



Then a poet: — 

He had woven a beautiful poem, 

In pattern and color as curious as a Persian 

rug 
Into which the weaver has woven his life. 
He read his lines and cried, 
"See what I have made!" 

A mother, 

One who pointed with pride to her children. 
Bright-haired, clean-limbed youngsters, 
Struck a madonna pose and sighed, 
"See what I have made!" 

There were others, oh, many others. 
For the workshop was filled with the boastful 
din of the tools. 

I looked at the Master, 
He stood with his head turned to one side, 
A smile on his lips, listening. 
Skillful, imperturbable, quiet; 
But he never opened his lips to cry, 
"See what I have made!" 



REFUGE 

I dreamed of you as some great, spreading tree 
Among whose leaves I could with certainty 

Fashion my nest; 
I thought to find safe shelter there 
From storm, and flowering pleasure when the 
day was fair. 

You seemed to be 

So wise and strong. 



[59] 



But now 1 know you as a branch that sways 
With every summer wind that round you plays, 

Now I am blest; 
Love for frail things exceeds in tenderness 
The love for strong — attains to perfect lovliness 

Through perilous ways, — 

^nd lasts as long. 

•!• •5c* •!• 

CONSOLATION 

Now he is dead; 

And you can weep, wear black and bow your 

head, 
Embalm your sorrow in pale, scented flowers. 
Display it to your friends for countless hours. 
Until you quite forget the face 
Of him you mourn. 
In all this show I have no place, 
But I must smile and seem content the while. 

Yet I am not forlorn ; 
For when your treasured griefs shall fade away, 

Like human beauty in decay, 

A radiant gem remains to me, 
Unchangeable and clear, — 
My memory! 

CRITICISM 

You hold a mirror for your various friends. 
To show their gross deformities — and grace. 
We look therein to see — 
Your face. 



[GO] 



INSISTENCE 

He will not come for any strident call, 

Nor when the house, ablaze with noon-time light, 

Is garnished bright; 
But when at last the eager fingers fall 
Tired, then with the night 

Through cool, green meadows where the dew lies 
sweet, 

Love comes with quiet feet. 

CHANGE 



When our new day awoke you murmured, sad :- 
"The light of yesterday was sweet to me; 
I fear for what to-morrow's dawn may be; 
Give me the well-known love that once I had." 

The old earth spins around with endless change; 
Never the same star brings the evening gloom. 
Never the same flower for the spring's first 

bloom. 
But love is love although his face is strange. 

Dear Heart, rejoice that with each April morn 
A brighter radiance lies upon the hills. 
And by the little brooks whose laughter fills 
The listening ear, fresh violets are born. 



[61] 



OVER THE WALL 

The world swung quiet by 

For nothing seemed to happen there 

Nothing of joy nor grief, hope nor despair, 

But I— 

I stood on tip-toe, my chin level with the wall 

Someone had built so tall around me. 

I saw a truant path bordered by bitter sweet. 

Would fit the feet of any wanderer, 

Itself a wanderer up the hill. 

Down in the thick-leaved mulberry tree 

A rascal cat-bird took his fill 

Of song, and purple berries. 

That blue that lay so still along 

The green horizon could but be 

The eye of the blue sea. 

Then one black night 

When thieves had stolen all the light 

A star leaned down and smiled at me. 

•I* **• V 

THE EGOIST 

I carry a candle, so carefully, so carefully, 

Climbing a long flight of stairs. 

Shading the flame with my hand. 

Watching with fear in my eyes lest the wind 

should flicker it out — 
With fear in my eyes — my eyes that do not see 

the morning sun shining in through the 

window, 
I carry a candle, so carefully, so carefully. 



[62] 



ASPHODEL 

Beautiful you are, as the play, in spring of shade 

beneath beech trees; 
And grace you have, the grace of one long wave 

breaking in calm, blue seas. 
Laughter is yours, the laughter of green leaves 

after an April rain. 
But you are cold, as cold as starlight on ferns of 

a frosted pane. 

Therefore I bring you dream flowers, pale scent- 
less blossoms that grow by a quiet stream. 

White petals I spread for your feet, with white 
petals crown you — 
But, in a dream! 

V V •!• 

THE EARTH LOVER 

My body died at twelve last night 

And I, a naked soul. 
Went through that dreadful pass of light 
With a thousand more, who took their flight 

While the midnight bell did toll. 

As birds wing south when summer is past 
And their cry through the night is born. 

So on the wave of the wind's wild blast 
We fled away; fast, so fast 

To the gate of that other morn : — 

Flames that burned with the fragrance of flowers, 

Cardinal, emerald, blue, 
Violet pure as April showers, 
Yellow pale as sunset hours. 

White, like frozen dew: — 
[63] 



Singing they went, those flower-like bands, 

With voices soft as rain; 
But I, I hid my face in my hands, 
And still I longed for the dear earth lands 

And the grace of my body again. 

My body died at twelve last night; 

I fled, a naked soul. 
And a wind from the south with perfume and 

light 
Went sighing the lost earth's green delight 
While the midnight bell did toll. 

rft ffi Ift 

THE END 

I am tired now and I shall go to bed, 

Pull up the comforts right around my head, 

(I hope they are made of eider-down) 

And go to sleep. 

And I shall dream neither of Satan's frown 

Nor of a heavenly crown. 
You poor, vexed souls who have more work 

ahead. 
Don't envy me and weep! 



[64] 



W 18 



^°. 






t ' # . ■•>, 









<^^' 






''■^^%'i' 



#% 










'^^r 



f^ ^^. 








i-' .♦ 


























'>i-> - 




V»S' 


















jPvs 





^. .^ .^.^^. -^^z ,^^, ^^^^^^^ •- 




<«» 




S,'^'^^^. V 



'o . i • /V <^ ♦'TV*' .0^ *^ '» . 



^^-^^^ 



^^ * 




0^ .iv- '^^^ 0- .. 







'^ol 



,0n 











